advice to people on the radio

Note to interviewees:  instead of talking about the 'incredible journey' you have been on, try the following words:  Career.  Life.  Experiences.  If you must bore us with your journey, at least vary the adjective.  How about interesting? Wonderful. Educative.  Exciting.  I don't know.  But do not tell me that starring in a tv show is the end of an incredible journey. You are not Sir Edmund Hillary.  Similarly, do not answer every question by first saying, "that's a very good question".  Politicians are prone to this time staller while they think of another question they'd rather answer.  Academics who think we are all too stupid to be talking to them in the first place are always congratulating their interviewers on the perspicacity of their questioning.  Yeah, right, Bub. Spare us the flattery.  Just answer the question.  I'll try to get my tiny brain around your answer.  And finally.  Hello NPR.  Must you make every science program sound like Sesame Street?  I don't really need Big Bird to explain genetics (even Big Bird couldn't make me understand but that's a different story).  Just say the words and I'll try to get it. 
Right.  I've got dishes to wash and beds to change.  Have I told you about how I became an innkeeper?  It's been an incredible journey.

The Day the World Ended

I was in the kitchen yesterday morning, listening to the contented chatter of  my guests  in the dining room, "where are you from?", "where are you going?" "isn't this absolutely without doubt the best bed and breakfast you've ever been to and isn't Jan beautiful?  (OK, OK.  I made that part up) when suddenly there was an eerie silence.  I hesitated to go in, fearing something other than a blueberry in the pancakes or a repetition of the day a chipmunk decided to join the throng.  Gathering my best defensive smile, I entered the room to find that the wi fi signal had disappeared leaving everyone staring at little devices in their hands, mournful  faces suddenly alone in the world with no news, no email, no directions telling them how to get out of my driveway.  Quelle horreur! I apologised , vowed immediate action, and strode to my computer and ...emailed my cousin.  He does something for a living which involves a computer.  I have no idea what it is.  But it has nothing whatever to do with repairing the things.  He is, however, always and cheerfully at my disposal to answer any question I happen to have regarding these machines simply based on our mothers having been sisters.  Anyhow, he gave me the advice he always gives me which is to unplug the offending bit, wait thirty seconds and plug it back in.  I could do this without calling him, but I never do.  I like being told.  This time, just to add a wallop to the advice, as I had been particularly whiney and pathetic about 'all these people paying good money and I promise free wi-fi, blah blah blah" he included an incantation.  I am far too genteel to repeat it here but to give the gist it went#%^@  #%^@ ety#%^# !!!  It worked.  There was  much cheering and  hooraying in the dining room before silence fell again while each caught up on the missing  15 minutes of their life outside Blue Skye Farm and  went back to showing people pictures of their cat on their telephone.

The Haircut

Thinking that I couldn't possibly make myself look any worse than the last hairdresser had managed to do, I had a go this morning myself.  Wrapped in a towel with a small Jack Russell nipping at my ankles, I confidently grabbed some hair and snipped away.  Way away.  I couldn't seem to make my two hands work in concert.  One hand held the hair while the other snipped wildly at the air.  Occasionally I would make contact and a clump would fall, greatly exciting the dog.  I decided to concentrate on the front where I could see before I moved to the great unknown at the back.  When I eventually tried the back of my head, I inflicted a rather nasty snip on my finger, two fingers actually, and had to stop.  The result is Rod Stewart circa 1983, which you might remember was not a good look even on Rod Stewart.  But I have to say, badly cut as it is, it is a great deal jazzier than the last professional mishap which made me look like a nun.  We always wondered why they wore those things on their heads until they took them off and the crummy haircuts underneath were revealed. When I went to the store this morning people smiled at me.  Smiled and pointed. 
Like Hillary Clinton.

Why does she do that?  Always with the raised eyebrows like "Hey Wow it's YOU!!  I'm SO HAPPY IT"S YOU!". Do you suppose she does that now when she gets off a plane in say, Russia? There's Putin waiting for her as she comes down the steps of the plane.  Hillary stops, raises her eyebrows, jolts her head back and points at him, "Wey hey!  it"s YOU!"   Somebody ought to tell her that her Alice in Wonderland days are over, speaking of hair.

Rats

In Rat Experiment, New Hope for Spine Injuries - NYTimes.com

I'm no fan of rodents, but this little chap really got to me.  I know, I know, countless human spinal injury victims will benefit from this but still ....
We had a rat in a dustbin once when we lived on a country lane in England.  My husband clapped a lid on the can and announced that he would 'deal with it in the morning'.  "How?" I inquired, knowing that I was dealing with a man who saves spiders from going down the plughole.  "In the time honored fashion," he said.  "I shall hit him with a shovel."  The morning dawned and I watched as my husband turned the bin over on its side with one hand while hoisting a shovel in the other.  He pulled off the lid and nothing happened.  He waited, poised to strike.  Still, nothing happened.  Then a little bewhiskered ratty nose appeared.   My husband's raised arm came down and he stood there watching as the rat, determining that the coast was clear, scuttled off into the bushes.  "What are you doing?" I shouted from the bedroom window.  "He was sniffing the morning," my husband said, as if this explained it all.

Bird Watching

Behind my computer screen is a window overlooking our marsh.  Bad for the eyes, but balm for the spirit. 
Dreary accounting was dramatically interrupted this morning by a bald eagle swooping down to harass, if not to catch, a tasty gosling.  Parental outrage with much goosey bellowing and hysterical flapping of wings saw him off.  This particular family is already 3 down from the starting number of 6.  Last year they had seven.  Seven little bundles of yellow are adorable.  Seven large geese, nine with the parents, waddling around the garden they now think of as their own, is a pain in the neck.  I clap and Jack jumps, but nothing stops them from doing whatever they want, wherever they want.  And so, the truth is, I found myself rooting for the eagle. 
This is a very birdy time of year.  The swallow house has been cleaned out, the oranges are out for the orioles, the bluebird house has already been checked out and rejected by a sniffy duo (for lack of granite work surfaces, no doubt) and emails fly between us and our neighbour across the way reporting new arrivals ("I'll see your oriole and raise you two red breasted grosbeaks" was sent to us the other day.  My friend on Cape Cod reports hummingbirds and so today I must prepare some nectar for our feeders to welcome those little heroes back from their collossal journey. 

In the meantime, featherless guests come and go at the inn,sometimes offering glimpses into their own migrations and the perils and joys encountered along the way.  We treasure the hummingbirds amongst them and put up with the occasional goose with as much good grace as we can muster.

Jack Russell Games

Took Jack to the vet yesterday to get his rabies shot.  All went surprisingly well until the time came for his treat.  Jack doesn't like treats.  That is to say, he likes them, but they have to be delivered in a Jack Russell kind of way.  He says that just taking a proffered biscuit is for labradors.   With Jack, presentation is all.  And more important still, it has to be a game.  Slowly reach for the bag on top of the fridge.  You have his attention.  Slower still take out a biscuit.  His eyes will be glued on you.  Offer it to him and he walks away disappointed and bored.  BUT.  Look at the biscuit and say, 'this looks like a BAD bikkie".  Ears up.  "This is a very bad bikkie."  Jack flattens himself on the floor and growls.  "This bikkie is going to GET YOU!"  Jack crouches and hops backward.  It is then that my husband (for it is he who colluded with Jack to play this stupid game) must get on the floor and move forward with the biscuit in his hand all the while saying "bad bikkie".  Jack growls.  He feints side to side.  He turns his back and looks over his shoulder.  He jumps.  He lunges.  He TAKES THE BIKKIE! 
Clearly, I was not going to explain this to the vet.  I just said, "he won't take it".  "Oh yes he will," said the vet in a I-am-a-vet-madam-and-I-know-what-I'm-talking-about kind of way.   "They love these."  In common with many vets I have known through the years, he is not all that great with people, but he knows animals.  He offered the special meaty treat to Jack who just sat there on the table looking at him.  "He won't take it," I said quietly.  "They ALL love this," he said.  "Here you go, boy.  Come on, boy."  Jack looked at him. The vet looked ...peeved. He went to a drawer and took out a rawhide chew.  Jack adores rawhide chews.  The vet offered it to him. Jack took it and threw it on the floor.  I gathered up my pet, picked the chew off the floor, mumbled apologies to Dr Grumpy and left.  We stopped at the bank on the way home and the girls all gathered at the drivethough window to watch Jack take the biscuit they send out in the drawer.  That is to say they watch him not take the biscuit.  They used to think it was because the biscuits were too big, so they break them into little pieces.  Jack likes the drawer part and he likes the girls, he just doesn't like the biscuits.  They aren't bad enough.

What, me mad?

I looked up just now and saw three airplanes.  This is unusual.  Then a fourth.  Then a low noisy one with water ski things on it. What is going on?  Has Kim Jong Un, the GREAT SUCCESSOR, in his disappointment and mortification over yesterday's rocket flop, decided to invade Maine?  Should I put my dog on the roof of the car a la the GREAT CHALLENGER and head for the hills?  Wait.  I'm in the hills. 
I've got to get out more.  Between the news and the presidential campaign I'm losing my grip.  Add to this a 3 day bout with the cold from hell during which time I was fever struck, drugged to the gills and in the thrall of Mad Men.  I watched 24 episodes in 2 days.  I stopped only to prepare breakfast for guests.  Oh yes.  There were guests.  I was encased in rubber gloves and disinfectant and made up to look healthy. I tried to avoid their gaze as the glittery eyes of a mad woman in the kitchen wielding knives is off putting to some people.   But here I am, back to normal.  I said, here I am, back to normal.